My Husband Married His Brother's Widow

The darkness in the living room felt heavier than usual, pressing against my shoulders like a weighted blanket I couldn't shake off. I'd been sitting in this same spot for hours, my phone still warm in my palm from the call with my parents in London. Their voices had been so hopeful, so certain that moving across the ocean was the right choice for Birdie and me.

"The immigration papers are all sorted, darling," Mum had said. "Just one more week, and you'll both be home."

Home. The word felt foreign on my tongue after six years in this city, six years of waiting for Garrett to make good on promises that grew thinner with each passing month.

A soft sound from down the hallway reminded me that Birdie was curled up in her bed, probably dreaming of tomorrow's birthday party. Six years old tomorrow. Six years of her asking why Daddy Garrett couldn't marry Mommy like her friends' parents. Six years of me making excuses for a man who—

The front door clicked open, and familiar footsteps echoed in the hallway.

"Why didn't you wait for me in the bedroom? It's freezing out here."

Garrett's voice hit me before the hallway light did, casting his tall silhouette against the doorframe. Even in the dim light, I could see the way his dark hair was slightly mussed, his tie loosened around his neck. But it was the scent that made my stomach clench—not the usual cigarette smoke or cologne, but something floral and delicate. Jasmine.

"I needed some air," I said, not moving from my position on the couch.

He approached with that easy smile that used to make my heart race, the one that had first caught my attention ten years ago when we were both different people with different dreams. Now it just looked practiced.

"Come here," he murmured, reaching for me with hands that smelled like soap and something else—something that definitely wasn't his usual aftershave.

I pushed his hands away instinctively, the jasmine scent growing stronger as he leaned closer. "Garrett, don't."

He laughed, a sound that was supposed to be charming but felt hollow in the quiet room. "What's wrong with you tonight? You're acting like I'm a stranger."

"You smell like perfume."

For just a moment, something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe, or annoyance at being caught. But then that practiced smile was back. "Sarah from accounting. You know how she bathes in that stuff. I couldn't avoid her in the elevator."

Sarah. Always Sarah, or Jennifer, or whoever else happened to be convenient for his explanations. He moved to kiss my forehead, that familiar gesture that used to feel like coming home. Now his lips felt cold against my skin.

"I missed you," he whispered, his hands sliding under my sweater with a hunger that had grown more desperate over the past six months. I'd thought it meant he was finally ready to commit, finally ready to choose us over his family's expectations. Now I understood it for what it really was—guilt made physical, desire displaced from wherever it truly belonged.

The nausea hit me like a wave, and I pushed him away harder this time.

"Norah." His voice carried a warning, the same tone he used when he thought I was being unreasonable. "What's gotten into you lately?"

I couldn't answer. Couldn't tell him about the phone calls to London, about the immigration papers, about the way I'd finally stopped believing in fairy tales.

"Fine." He stepped back, hands raised in surrender. "Fine. I'll go shower, and maybe you'll remember how to act like my girlfriend when I come back."

He was halfway to the bathroom when his phone buzzed on the coffee table. The ringtone was unfamiliar—a soft, romantic melody I'd never heard before. Not his usual generic tone, but something chosen with care.

I reached for it without thinking, but Garrett appeared in the doorway faster than should have been possible, water still dripping from his hands.

"Don't." He snatched the phone away, his grip tight enough to whiten his knuckles.

The voice on the other end was faint but clear enough. A woman's voice, strained with worry. "Garrett? I'm not feeling well, and the baby—"

His face went white. "I'll be right there," he said, already moving toward the bedroom to grab clothes.

"Sloane?" The name slipped out before I could stop it.

Garrett froze, his back still turned to me. When he faced me again, his expression was carefully arranged into something resembling concern. "Kyle's widow," he said, as if that explained everything. "She's been struggling since he died. The family... they expect me to look after both households now."

Both households. As if that was normal. As if that was something I should accept without question.

"But you love me," he continued, crossing the room to grip my shoulders. His eyes were intense, almost desperate. "You know that, right? Whatever anyone says, whatever my family expects, I love you. I'm going to give you that wedding, Norah. Even if it means fighting everyone I know."

The same words. The exact same words he'd been saying for six years, like a prayer he'd memorized but never meant.

He was already pulling on his jacket when I found my voice. "Garrett, you—"

"Norah." The sharpness in his tone made me flinch. "I already broke family rules for you. What more do you want from me?"

The words I'd been about to say—about London, about leaving, about finally being done with waiting—died in my throat. I looked at his face, really looked at it, and saw a stranger wearing Garrett's features.

"Tomorrow is Birdie's birthday," I said quietly.

For a moment, genuine guilt flickered across his expression. "Right. Yes. I know."

I know. Not 'I'll be there' or 'I wouldn't miss it.' Just 'I know.'

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone in the darkness again. I sat there for a long time, listening to the silence, thinking about the woman whose voice had carried such intimacy, such assumption of comfort.

Finally, I picked up my phone and scrolled to my photos. There it was—the picture from six years ago, Garrett on one knee in the park where we'd had our first date, a ring box open in his hands and promises spilling from his lips like water.

I pressed and held the image, watching the delete option appear.

My finger hovered over the button when my phone buzzed with a text message. From Garrett.

But as I read the words, my blood turned to ice.

*Baby don't worry, I'll handle the Birdie birthday thing tomorrow. After that we can focus on planning our wedding.*

The message wasn't meant for me. The contact name at the top read 'Sloane Prescott.'

I stared at the screen until the words blurred, until my hands started shaking, until the full weight of six years of lies crashed down around me like glass.